


The Transformation

by Alona



Category: The Lie Tree - Frances Hardinge
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5498336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alona/pseuds/Alona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Faith unveils her latest scientific investigation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Transformation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gogollescent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogollescent/gifts).



Faith, her skirts filling the small space, stood in the darkroom, studying with manufactured interest the racks of chemicals and the camera with its bowels emptied and ranged on a bench. Her shoulders lifted in acknowledgement of his presence a long, tense beat before she turned her head to him and prepared to speak. Paul, without a word, backed out of the door. 

"Wait," she said. And, grinding and low, "Please." 

His pulse crashing in his ears, Paul froze.

She had been waiting for him to return, of course. Did she mean to apologize? Had she set the scene in the darkroom, his domain, to trick him into a softer frame of mind? It did not strike him as her sort of artfulness; but perhaps she was borrowing a maneuver from her mother. He was afraid, then, of what she would say.

"I don't want to hear it," he said, and added, "It is not our hour for it," as if all their usual rules had not been suspended for weeks.

"I have no time for that!" She took a step towards him, and then another, bundling them both out into the hall, Paul buffeted along by the stiffened arc of her hem. "I had to speak to you now." 

"You want something from me," said Paul, not sorry for it. 

"I need you to steal something for me," said Faith. "From Dr. Gardiner's room."

"You can't do it yourself?"

"If I should be caught..." She raised a hand in an angry, dismissive gesture. "A young woman sneaking into a man's room? There would never be an end to it. You, on the other hand, can pass it off as high spirits, a boyish prank." 

"I seem to be developing a habit of boyish pranks, don't I?"

Faith did not flinch. "It must be done today."

"Can't I take some time to think? He is staying out the week with us."

"No. I need it before sunset." 

Paul's searching look broke uselessly against the focused desperation in her face, and with it any inner pretense he may have retained that he was going to refuse.

By way of agreement, he said, "He is going out after dinner to visit some relations in the neighborhood. But you will tell me everything." 

"I would have anyway," she said. "Only I wasn't ready yet."

He believed her. "What am I meant to be stealing?"

"A sample from his case. I have a drawing, to show you what to look for. He does not know what he has, which is not at all surprising. I overheard him describing it to your father..."

Paul nodded. His father had found himself over the past few years hosting a number of learned men, without ever quite being able to account for why he should do such a thing. However, he accepted it. He kept up conversations with them at meals. It was fortunate for him but above all for Faith that such men were only waiting for an opportunity to lecture and required no more prompting than an initial display of interest. 

It was a delicate ruse, and Paul doubted very much that most of their guests wholly believed in it. One disagreeable physician had had no difficulty picking out Faith to receive his discourse from the first. Though Myrtle had professed herself hopeful that he so favored her with a view toward matrimony, Paul had maintained all along, and been proven right in the end, that scientific discussion was all that had ever interested this particular learned visitor. The rest, whether they saw through it or not, went along with the deception. 

Dr. Gardiner, their current guest, was an expert in the narrow arena of Balkan flora. He, at any rate, showed no signs of suspecting Faith of having a single thought in her head. 

Faith handed Paul a drawing, in which he recognized her handiwork. It was executed in ink and watercolor, precise and painstaking. It showed several views of a plant, diagrams of its leaves and flowers, with all its identifying marks pointed out. Paul thought of all the times he had seen her, across the rectory's library, bent in concentration over a drawing.

"I only need a handful of leaves," said Faith. "With any luck he will not notice they are missing. 

"Is it dangerous?" asked Paul. 

"Not unless you intend to eat it. I can answer for everything else." 

"What does it do? What do you need it for? How do you know what it looks like?"

"Later," said Faith. "When you have it. As you said, it is not our hour for free conversation."

When what was called a decent interval had passed and Myrtle had triumphantly resumed occupation of the rectory as the new Mrs. Clay, Paul and Faith's first concern had been to establish a code of conduct to govern their interactions. 

The system did not arrange itself all at once, but rather grew up in lurches, like scaffolding growing up over the face of a building in perpetual collapse: at such a day, at such an hour, in such a setting, they would speak to each other as they had done in those nightmarish days on Vane, cutting or kind, and entirely honest. The rest of the time they were distantly polite, inhabiting their public costumes even when alone, some chaperoning presence forcing their compliance. Paul felt a frisson of transgression, not more than half painful, at having allowed Faith to break the rules. 

He had told himself at first, without conviction, that the rules were there to keep them from killing each other, since they were forced to lived together. But it was not the old adage about familiarity and the contempt it bred that their pasted-together rules of engagement were meant to neutralize. Quite another danger lay in familiarity for them. 

Their parents were wholly taken in by the counterfeit of coolness. Truth be told, they both preferred it that way. 

Paul was unsurprised that his father had no inkling of the secret currents of friendship and strife flowing between his son and step-daughter. He had always felt himself on the other side of a pane of frosted glass from his father, which simplified the pains and enthusiasms of his life. It was no different now. 

There was something more suspicious in Myrtle's complacence. She had made a sort of confidante of Paul, taking a glancing interest in his studies and opening her household concerns to him, on average once a week, with graceful bewilderment. Faith had said, not without an angry hint of pride, that Myrtle was using Paul as an indirect measure of his father's mood. However it was, Paul took in Myrtle's confidences, and nodded, with no more interest than distant sympathy called for, when she lamented that Faith was dull and plain, just as if he had any idea what she was talking about. 

It had worked, until a few weeks back. Then, Faith had lied to Paul and he, the lie having disarmed him, had chosen to let the consequences of her incomprehensible actions fall on him. Without discussion, each had retreated. They had not spoken outside of customary phrases; they had not been alone together. Paul had imagined he was waiting for an apology, a justification. He had thought something irreparably overturned between them. It turned out that it had only tottered, sloshed, and settled, and here he was embroiled in her scheme, wanting no more apology than to know what she was doing. It was the old madness. It felt familiar and right. 

At dinner the family party and Dr. Gardiner were joined by the curate and two neighboring Misses Wallace. These young ladies were friends of Faith's. The elder of the two had recently become engaged. The elaboration of her fiancé's establishment and other sundry merits filled up a comfortable slice of conversation, in which neither Faith nor Paul participated. Seated beside Faith, Paul did not think she was paying the least attention. Small, secret expressions flickered over her features, answers to a conversation she was having in her head. 

"These parents cannot discipline their children these days," said Dr. Gardiner. The conversation had somehow turned. "Why, not too long before I came, it seems, Mr. Clay's own boy – "

Paul braced himself. Seeing what was coming, Myrtle threw a look of deep imploring sweetness at her guest, and Paul's father began to clear his throat, but the strident voice rolled on.

" – his own son, stole the sacred vessels out of the church and buried them, actually buried them. Isn't that right."

Paul felt the sidling glances converge on him, connect and slither down his cheeks like something rotten. He did not answer. 

Dr. Gardiner continued, "You would not have seen that in my young days, I tell you. Oh, we did not turn up our noses at an innocent rag, but children were brought up to respect God and Church, then..." 

For something else to focus on than his own perfectly undeserved humiliation, Paul tried to assess Faith's response. She seemed no more moved than she had been by Miss Wallace's prospects. Paul knew, though, how much that wooden look of hers could hide. 

Quickly he put out his hand and laid it flat against her thigh. 

She sat up a little straighter, pressed her elbows more tidily to her sides. There was a new cold fixedness to her gaze, which before had been looking at something inside herself, and now was looking at nothing at all. It was as though she had withdrawn, separating herself from the sensations of her lower body. 

Paul, ashamed and glazed in icy terror, sensed he had misfired. He had gone too far. But before he could draw back his hand, Faith's darted out and grabbed his wrist roughly, her nails grazing his skin, and he was caught. 

All the time she had not made a sign, had not so much as looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He should have remembered that she would never suffer herself to be outdone. 

He waited, fatalistically certain that someone would notice. It was inevitable. Any moment now his father would ask why he had stopped eating, or one of the others would see something amiss in his face. As he waited he felt the warmth of Faith's skin soaking up through the layers of her clothing. His mind was perfectly blank of everything but anxiety and desire. 

Then she released him and went back to her food. 

He tried to decide how long the ordeal had lasted, but could not be sure. Impossible as it was to believe, no one had said a thing. Studying the diners' faces one by one he could detect no hint of secret knowledge, no scandalized astonishment. 

He snuck a look at his palm. It looked the same as it ever did. He would not have been surprised to find a brand burned into it. 

When the interminable dinner was over and Dr. Gardiner had left, Faith and Paul reconvened in the small room Faith had claimed as her study. It was full of her notebooks and equipment, and a tall cabinet holding a few specimens. Much more was housed in a shed on the grounds of the rectory, which the Reverend Sunderly had used it that capacity and which, when the living had first changed hands, had been left untouched – a friendly gesture.

As soon as they were inside a change came over Faith. It was as if her inner being roiled with spikes that she hid behind the featureless wrapper of propriety she drew on to pass unnoticed in company. Set loose, the forest of ugly barbs ripped through, and a sharper, more dangerous Faith emerged from the carnage. 

Paul wondered if she was aware of it. He found it mesmerizing and queasy, like watching a contortionist. 

He thought she might allude to their battle at dinner, but all she said was, "Are you ready?"

The barest, business-like exchange of plans – it was not, Faith pointed out, a complicated theft – and then they were creeping to the guest room with an enforced casualness in case they should meet anyone. 

Faith tarried in the hall, with the look of someone just on the point of remembering what she was meant to be doing. Paul went on ahead. He had a plain envelope in his pocket waiting to receive the spoils. 

The learned doctor's specimen case, a squat, suede-covered box with a snapping lid like a trap, stood on the floor near the window. There was no lock on it, and Paul's hands were steady as he undid the clasp. The right specimen was not hard to identify. He took a few leaves, slipped then into the envelope, and arranged everything to look just as he had found it. 

Listening at the door, he thought he heard someone coming. He waited, but there was no warning from Faith, and no further noise. He went out into the hall. 

As soon as Faith saw him she began making slowly for her study, where they both returned, safe and undetected, moments later. 

He held out the envelope to her. Faith took it, glanced inside, then slumped in a curious surrender to relief. It occurred to Paul for the first time that she had not been sure of him. He did not know why this made him angry, but it did. 

"So what's it about?" he hissed. "You owe me." 

"I was going to tell you anyway. I said." She shook her head. "I did not want you to know until I had it under control."

"What have you been meddling with?" Paul asked, eyes narrowing. 

"I'm getting to it," she said shortly. "When I went to Brittany last month – "

" – on your sketching trip – "

" – on my sketching trip, yes," said Faith, visibly too distracted assembling her narrative to acknowledge the misleading description. "We boarded for a week with an old woman whose house stood by the last remnants of a large forest. The kind that attracts local legends – fascinating, from the anthropological perspective. Our host and I got to talking. She had a fascinating garden, where she bred new varieties of plants. From time to time visitors came to bring her exotic cuttings, and she tried to create environments where they would thrive. Her hobby is well known among her circle, and smiled upon. Flowers are a suitable, ladylike pursuit. She is a rather wealthy, noble lady, you see. In short, she is a natural scientist." 

Paul nodded uncertainly. He had wondered, upon her return from the supposed sketching trip, why Faith had had so little to say about it. He had concluded that it had been a disappointment. 

Faith meanwhile had removed a mortar and pestle from the shelves and set it up on a table. She measured a number of ingredients into the bowl. Last of all she crumbled in half of the leaves Paul had stolen, and secreted the rest into a drawer. She worked slowly at the mixture as she went on. 

"As we had interests in common, she was eager to share what she knew with me. And one thing she knew was a story of a creature that walked in the woods by her home."

"A creature?"

"A man," said Faith, "who transformed into a wolf."

"But that is – " Paul pulled up short before pronouncing it impossible. He shrugged. 

Faith continued, "I wasn't inclined to believe it myself, but I was curious enough to make some inquiries. I spoke to the local people to see what they could tell me about it." 

"You did? On your own?" 

"There was no one to report me," Faith said, and there was no way of telling how much irony she intended.

"Go on," said Paul.

"I found records in one of the village churches – I copied them out, if you want to see. In the end, one night, when there was a full moon, I went out into the woods at night." She paused. 

"And you... found it?"

"I did," said Faith, her expression clouding over. "It was dying. It had been in a fight – I am not sure what with." She added, "There aren't any real wolves in those woods, or anywhere around them. That is why I did not dismiss the story at once, and why it was not difficult for me to identify it." 

"So you found it," Paul repeated. 

"Yes. I came close, and spoke to it."

There was an awkward, resonating halt in the flow of her story, during which Paul had a vision in his mind, as clear as though he were snatching memories from the cloud swirling invisibly around Faith's head: Faith, in the speckled moonlight of a scant forest, kneeling by degrees beside an enormous wolf with hot blood spilling from a gash in its flank. Her expression would be grim, sickness warring with curiosity. She would be speaking, her voice at the steady, comforting pitch she used to calm Howard when he was afraid. She would reach down a hand, gloved no doubt, to the wolf...

"It bit me," she said.

The image in Paul's mind splintered until it was nothing but dust. He stared at her, blank, stunned. 

"No, wait," said Faith, holding up a hand, "that is not right. I let it bite me." 

"You what! Of all the – " He could not even complete the thought. 

Faith gave a small laugh at his truncated protest, then continued, her tone a drill boring through rock. "It was such an opportunity for study that I could not bear to let it go. I thought that I would be the ideal test subject, and that as I would be the only one in danger from the transformation... No. No, that is not right either. I hoped I would transform. I hoped I would be dangerous. In the moment, the thought that I might inhabit the body of a wolf for a time, be something other than a young girl... The temptation was too strong." She took a breath. "And I do not regret that decision now." 

There was silence between, save for the murmur of her pestle. 

"Well?" said Faith. 

"If anyone else had told me this," said Paul, "I would not have doubted for a moment that they were mad. But you..."

"You know perfectly well I _am_ mad."

Paul felt an idiotic smile tugging at his lips. "Yes," he said, stiffly. "And so, did it work? Are you... a werewolf now?"

"Oh, yes," said Faith. "That is, to be precise, I believe so. I have only experienced two transformations, or perceived transformations. My memory is... not clear. I needed this plant, you see, because I have a theory about it. The old Breton woman had been growing it in her garden, and she found it dug up from time to time, or its leaves plucked. I took some with me, and ate a little. It helped keep my mind clear. I believe I can use it to make a potion that will keep me from losing my self-awareness when... when it happens again." 

There was a veneer of glibness over her words that did not quite mask the appalling, complicated truth beneath them. 

Paul only said, "Tonight."

"That is right. I hope in time to be able to control it – to change, and change back at will. Or else it might... become inconvenient."

Paul imagined her turning into a wolf in the middle of a ball. The idea was not so strange, after all. He said, "What about the sacred vessels? What did that have to do with it? Or was that just for the fun of getting me in trouble?"

Faith looked a little embarrassed. "I had some childish idea that holy objects would have some impact. Well, it was worth investigating," she insisted, though Paul had not contradicted her. She unlocked a cabinet and pulled out a thick notebook. "Everything relevant to this experiment is written here. My researches, my theories, all the data I've gathered. You are welcome to read it. If you still have any questions..." 

Paul had taken the notebook and begun to page through it. He felt numb. Faith had – if this were all true – been changing into some kind of beast – twice already, she had said – and no one had known. That she had been up to something had been clear, but Faith was always up to something. He was disturbed that she had done so much without him, and equally disturbed that he had not been able to divine it. 

"Thanks," he said. "I do have a question, actually."

Faith raised her eyebrows slightly. 

"Where do you go to... to change?"

"Last time I went out into the fields beyond the church."

"All right. I'll come with you. I can help you make observations, you know. Take pictures."

She gave him a hard look. "This is why I didn't tell you. I knew you would want to be involved, and it might not be safe. I am not going to stop you coming, of course, and... and I suppose I will be glad for the company," she admitted. "But leave the pictures for another night." 

Paul, feeling unusually slow, at last grasped the glaringly evident fact that she had been trying to protect him from herself. He was surprised, and more humiliated than touched. 

"No pictures," he agreed. 

They repaired to the library, where they were meant to be found at this time of day. They sat in silence, Paul reading Faith's notes and Faith working through a fresh crop of scientific journals. She had bottled her potion in a vial and tucked it away. Paul found the notes thorough to the point of dullness. She had held interminable arguments with herself about the possible physiological explanations for the phenomenon, reaching no satisfactory conclusion. 

Paul examined himself, but was unable to decide whether he believed any of it. If it was true, he would soon have incontestable proof. 

In the evening they snuck out together. The household, following Myrtle's example, was in the habit of turning a blind eye to certain of Faith's disappearances, if she did not tax credulity too far. 

It was early autumn, the nights growing shorter but not yet inconveniently so. There was a damp, clinging chill in the air, and the western horizon was a bloody smear seeping gradually into a dark drape of sky. Paul followed Faith down into a shrubby depression that held a slow stream. In the shadow of the slope, it was already dark. 

Faith studied the sky. "Soon," she said. "Try to remember everything you see. And if the potion doesn't work..."

"What?"

"Don't let me hurt you," said Faith, pulling up her shoulders, "that's all." 

Paul rolled his eyes, but hastened to agree. Faith drew the vial from her pocket. She uncorked it and gulped it down quickly. Then, with a faint shudder, she replaced the cork and put the vial away. She removed her gloves and unpinned her hair, which unfurled in cramped scrawls down her back. 

"Would you help me loosen my clothes? Don't be squeamish," she said, as Paul took an involuntary step back. "You are about to watch me transform into a wolf – I hope. And it is not as if you have not seen me in dishabille before." 

Paul almost choked. The word was considerably more scandalous than any of the circumstances it described merited. Setting aside his discomfort, he helped Faith to unhook her dress and loosen her corset. She stood perfectly still until he had finished. He wondered if he was imagining the deliberation of her breaths. 

"Now step back," she said. 

It was full dark now, as far as Paul could see. He backed away until Faith motioned for him to stop. There was a space of utter stillness that might equally have been within as without. Paul, teetering between doubt and certainty, could not tell. 

Then Faith changed. It happened too quickly, too naturally, for Paul to see the details. She seemed to shrink into her clothes, her hair swinging forward over her face. And from the collapsed heap of clothing a small, dark wolf emerged. 

Paul barely restrained a shout of triumph. He was relieved. He was overjoyed, though he could not have said why. 

The wolf that was Faith looked up at him with orange wolf's eyes. Paul stood still. The wolf circled him a few times, then approached. She swiped at his legs with her tail, then bounded away. She stopped at the top of the rise, obviously waiting.

Paul pulled himself together and followed.


End file.
